I believe that angels breathe
by Tarafina
Summary: "The woman you and your friends killed in cold blood. You know that she's my wife..."


**Title**: I believe that angels breathe (And that love will live on and never leave)  
**Category**: The Vampire Diaries  
**Genre**: Tragedy/Drama/Romance  
**Ship**: Stefan/Caroline  
**Rating**: R  
**Warning(s)**: Explicit Violence, Character Deaths, Character Suicide  
**Word Count**: 4,603  
**Summary**: "The woman you and your friends killed in cold blood. You _know _that she's my wife..."

**_I believe that angels breathe (And that love will live on and never leave)_**  
-1/1-

Stefan never considered himself to be a cruel person. He didn't think he was unnecessarily violent. He told himself that the reasons he did things in the past, tortured people, killed people, were all a means to an end. They were justified because those people had, or intended to, hurt him or those he cared about. Their lives mattered little in comparison.

The other side of him, that slit throats and laughed as blood sprayed across his face, that enjoyed the terror that riddled others as he killed, that was the Ripper inside him; a part of him that he detested to his very core. That part of him, that took sickening satisfaction in the pain and suffering of others, that was not who he was.

Or he didn't think it was.

Until now.

There was a man strapped to a chair. Not a vampire, werewolf, witch, or warlock. He was a human man. Average height and build, thin, brown, receding hair, and dressed less for style and more for comfort in plaid and ill-fitting jeans. He was in his mid-forties, blue-collar, if Stefan's assumptions were right, and had a tan line where his wedding band no longer sat. But those things weren't important, really. They were forgettable when faced with his situation.

His wrists were tied down with wire, it dug into his skin so tightly that if he moved even slightly, blood would gush from the open wounds. It pooled on the hardwood floors beneath him, staining the wood to a point where it would never be scrubbed clean. Stefan stared at it idly, but it wasn't for the blood that dripped so freely, it wasn't hunger that throbbed viciously in his veins. It was anger and vengeance, hatred and spite, that burned a hollow pit inside him.

The man was weeping, and not silently either. He kept taking gulping breaths of air, his body trembling with fear as he sniffled, tears and snot running down his face in the least brave display Stefan had seen in some time. He had pissed himself recently, it soaked his jeans and soured the air. What would have been the refreshing scent of the clean woods that surrounded Stefan's house, of the peach cobbler on the counter and the homemade chicken soup on the stove, was now tainted with blood, piss, and the overwhelming stain of fear.

"What's your name?" Stefan wondered, from his seat in the chair placed directly across from the man.

His red-rimmed eyes darted as he considered the question, his brows furrowed.

"I don't like to repeat myself." Sitting forward, he rested his forearms on his knees and twisted the lapis lazuli ring on his finger.

"Har-Harold," he finally told him, swallowing thickly.

"You know who I am?"

His face curled up in disgust then. "Stefan Salvatore, born in _18_-47."

He tipped his head, his jaw ticking. "You're not a hunter," he deduced before casting his eyes away from him, to the two bodies on the kitchen floor, and the booted foot he saw peeking out from where a third body lay in the living room. "You're not trained or tattooed... Which means you're either _very _stupid or you have a death wish."

"I'm not telling you anything," he told him, lifting his head in stubborn, misplaced, pride.

Stefan smirked sarcastically, no humor or happiness to be found. Veins throbbed beneath his eyes as his elongated teeth flashed with dark warning. "You won't have a choice," he promised.

Harold's show of bravery withered quickly. "Wait. _Wait_, I... I don't know anything. I just— I— It wasn't even my idea. It was Tim's. Tim said he knew what you were. Said he had a girlfriend, she got herself turned by one and killed her whole family. He said you guys do that, you turn people, you make them crazy, make them into murderers. We just— I was just trying to keep my family safe."

"Safe," Stefan repeated, staring at him. "You have a family?"

"Sure, yeah. I got— I got a brother, sister-in-law, two nieces, and a— a wife, _ex_-wife."

He cocked his head. "You love your ex-wife, Harold?"

"Yeah, yeah I do."

"How, uh, how long were you two together?" Crossing his arms, he sat back in his chair, surveying the man through narrowed eyes.

"We met in high school. High school sweethearts, you could say... Were together nearly twenty years, but, we were young, dumb, I made some mistakes, and she... She got tired of putting up with them and left me. I— I'm a good man though. I was a good husband for the most part." He stared at Stefan. "We tried to have kids but, you know, some people... just can't have them."

"Are you trying to make me feel bad, Harold? Inspire some pity, maybe?"

He swallowed thickly. "Maybe I am."

"You don't think that might be hard, given the situation?" His brows hiked. "You don't think it might be difficult for me to feel bad for you, leaving behind an ex-wife?"

"Mistakes were made, I admit that..." he whispered tremulously, his eyes falling to the floor.

Stefan sat forward abruptly. So much so that Harold spooked, jumping in his chair, and cut his wrists anew. He cried out, breaking down on a sob, as his skin rubbed raw against the wire that kept him in place. His chest heaved with each heavy breath he inhaled and he shook his head, dropping his chin to his chest as he tried and failed to compose himself. "Please, _please_, I— It wasn't me who did it. I didn't even know!"

Standing from his chair, Stefan walked around behind it, bracing his hands on the back. "Ask yourself what you would do if you were in my position... Think back, remember what it looked like when I got here... And ask yourself, what would _you _do if you were standing where I am..."

Harold looked up, staring at Stefan a long second, panting thickly, spittle dribbling down his lip. He looked to the floor, where his blood and the bodies of his two friends lay. And then he turned, and he stared at the stove, where an overturned pot of chicken soup spilled over the counter and puddled on the floor, _drip drip dripping_. On the other counter, across the sink, there was a peach cobbler, long gone cold, the golden crust criss-crossed on top. Finally, his eyes rested on Stefan once more, on the hand that gripped the chair, on the two rings he wore, one silver and blue, and the other gold. A band that rested meaningfully on his right ring finger.

With a pitiful whine, he closed his eyes, tears leaking out the corner, and he knew his fate. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, please..."

Stefan was beside him in a second, his breath hot against Harold's ear as he asked, "Did she beg?"

He whimpered, his lips curling up, trembling.

Stefan's hand wrapped around the back of his neck and squeezed before giving him a harsh, expectant shake. "Did she ask you not to kill her?"

He opened his eyes, silent tears falling now. "She— She told us to go to hell."

Stefan smiled faintly, darkly, but it faded as he stared at the door, still open. As he remembered what had happened, what brought him here. How everything had turned upside down...

He was returning home from work, closing down the book shop an hour later than usual because one of his favorite customers had stopped him to talk about The Great Gatsby. He'd lost track of time and, after bidding Mr. Franklin goodbye, promising to talk to him more after he'd read one of Stefan's favorite books, he started home.

They owned a cabin a short drive outside of town. One of its selling points was how much the scenery reminded him of Mystic Falls without all of the bloodshed and history. It had been a fixer upper and they'd spent months getting it to a point that was not only liveable but esthetically pleasing. The turn off from the highway had a small sign that swung in the wind; _Salvatores _painted in pretty cursive. They took it with them with each new place they moved to and it never failed to make him grin.

The driveway wasn't paved, just rock that always crunched when he pulled up. As he left his car, he walked up the stone path, stopping beside the flower beds to collect her gardening tools. She always left them out and then remembered just before they went to bed, racing outside to gather them up before she rejoined him and pressed her cold toes against his legs, complaining that it was freezing out. Sometimes he left them out just for that ritual, but by the looks of the sky, it was going to rain, so he collected them under his arms, her favorite pink gloves tucked in his pants pocket, and continued to the back door.

She'd called earlier, asked him what he wanted for dinner.

"Whatever you want, I don't mind. I can pick something up on the drive in too."

"Actually, I was asking to be polite, I already put soup on."

He laughed, shaking his head. "Let me guess, your infamous home chicken noodle soup."

"Yes! Only this time, I think I've got it. This will be the _least_ salty batch I've ever made. _Promise_."

"I don't know. I think I've gotten used to it salty."

"Shut up," she muttered.

He chuckled under his breath. "You want me to pick anything up? Crackers? Dessert?"

"Nope. I checked, we're good for crackers _and_ I made pie!"

"Really?" he asked. "What happened to spending your day relaxing?"

"Baking _is _relaxing. And I did some gardening, went into town to do a little shopping, I even went for a swim at the lake," she assured, sounding pleased with herself.

"Whatever makes you happy."

"You know what would make me _really _happy...? My husband taking a day off from his dusty bookstore and spending it with me, sans clothing."

He grinned. "Is that right?"

"Mm-hmm."

"How's tomorrow sound?"

"I'll see if I can fit you in my schedule, Mister Salvatore, but you _may _have to convince me of the upsides when you get home."

"Right after my salty soup and pie, I will break out _all _of my best moves."

She giggled. "I'll hold you to that!"

Smiling at the memory, he reached for the handle on the door. He could smell the soup on the air, the pie too, but there was something else, something metallic. It took him only a second to realize it was blood and, at first, it didn't surprise him. They kept a well-stocked supply in the freezer, blood was no foreign substance in their house. As he pushed open the door, however, he realized it was all wrong.

The soup pot was overturned, leaking onto the floor. The table was broken into pieces, the blue and white tablecloth she'd picked out was stained and crumbled underneath it, and the vase of fresh wild flowers was shattered, petals strewn everywhere amongst glass and spilled water. There was blood on the floor, and a stake embedded in a wall adjacent to the stove. His chest lurched, the gardening supplies falling from his hands, and he stepped further into the house.

"Caroline?" he shouted frantically.

"Honey's not home," came a deep, heavy voice.

He turned his head, spotting a man holding a crossbow, the arrow replaced with a crudely whittled stake. Stefan focused on him and then the house; there were three heartbeats, all of them thudding loudly.

"Where're your friends?" Stefan asked calmly, casting his eyes away, following the sound until he was fairly sure of their whereabouts. "I count two in my living room. Am I missing anyone?"

The man's jaw flexed angrily, his finger twitching on the trigger but not pulling it.

Stefan took his hesitation as an opening and rushed him. In the same moment that he appeared behind the man, the stake left the crossbow and hit the far wall.

He was going to knock him out. Not kill him, just hit his head against the wall hard enough that he wouldn't be a problem anymore, but then he saw her.

Caroline.

She laid on her side, her arm outstretched above her head, her fingers wet with blood. A stake had gone through her back and protruded through her front. Blood dripped from the tip to a puddle on the floor. She was grey, her skin veined, her eyes dark, empty. His breath caught in his throat on a cry and his eyes filled with tears, brimming on the edges.

He was frozen; the whole world seemed to stop for a moment.

He still remembered the day he fell in love with her like it was yesterday. He remembered the way she said his name, how her hand fit into his, how she laughed and smiled and tipped her chin up expectantly. He remembered how soft her lips were and the scent of her perfume mixing with her shampoo. He remembered the way her lips moved as she said it back, as she blinked away tears and pretended she wasn't emotional.

He remembered years together, decades. City to city, town to town, starting anew, the young couple who just moved in. Never mind that they could pass for eighteen, never aging; with creative clothing choices and make-up on her part, they looked like they were in their twenties. And then, after a few years, they would move on, find another place, avoid the questions and curiosity. They had only been in town six or so months and hadn't had any problems with the locals. He never expected this. Even after all they'd been through, all they'd seen, he never expected it to end like this.

He killed the man with the crossbow, and he didn't feel a moment's hesitation or remorse. He snapped his neck so quickly, so completely, he nearly tore his head straight off, and then he simply let him fall to the ground. And when the other two gathered their courage and rushed him, he attacked. He bit the second one, tore his throat out with his teeth, spat the chunk of skin to the floor and licked his lips. The third one though, he didn't kill.

The third one was Harold.

There was a fourth, a man on the floor; Caroline had killed him before trying to escape, and they'd shot her in the back.

Stefan circled around to face Harold, his hands braced on Harold's wrists, pressing the wires down against him, unmoved as he shrieked in pain.

"You were married almost twenty years?"

Harold's teeth were clenched as he cursed, sniffling.

"Pay attention." He squeezed his wrists.

"Yes! _Yes!_ Ei-Eighteen y-years."

Stefan nodded. "Do you know how long I've been married?" He stared at him searchingly. "You know she's my wife, don't you...? The woman you and your friends killed in cold blood. You _know _that she's my wife..."

He nodded jerkily. "Not at first. We didn't... We didn't expect her. We came here for _you_, not her. She— She was just standing there. She was cooking an-and singing, and Tim saw her and he just... _reacted_. She moved, but it got her in the arm. We— There was vervain on it, made her slow, and that's when we knew... She was one of _you_. So we— We chased her and Pete grabbed her, but she elbowed him in the face. He was gonna stake her, make it quick, but she turned around, she broke his neck. She panicked, tried to run away, but Tim shot her. He got her that time. She just— She fell. It all happened so f-fast. And then you were pulling up and we just, we _hid_."

Stefan tried to imagine her fear. He tried to think of how shocked she would be when that door opened, expecting to see him and instead finding those men and a stake coming right at her. The confusion, the fear, as their world fell apart, as the vervain hit her and she tried to escape. Caroline hated killing. Humans, especially. With the supernatural, it was sometimes easier to justify it. Most of them had been evil, had been bent on killing them. But humans, these ones especially, were ignorant. They didn't know why they were doing what they were doing except for a story told by one, of a vampire gone wrong. They applied that logic to all vampires and took it upon themselves to attack first and ask questions later. And because of that, Caroline was dead.

"Eighty-seven years..."

He stepped away from Harold and turned his back to him, staring at the lace curtains that hung over the sink and in the window of the back door; blue bows were meticulously tied in the middle of each. Caroline had gotten crafty one afternoon after spending the day in the bookstore with him, helping him reorganize shelves, muttering that most of the world had moved on from real books and followed technology. But there were still a few, still some who preferred the weight, the smell, the atmosphere of a book in their hand versus whatever technological miracle someone had cooked up. Stefan wasn't in it for the money, he had enough of that, he liked the experience of it.

Caroline kept herself busy working on committees; there was never a task she didn't take on with all of herself. Making their home a point of pride was one of those tasks and, when he found her in the arts and crafts section, he wasn't all that surprised. She built the stone path from the driveway to the door, she put in her own flower beds and took care of them daily, and she was the one who designed everything in their house. Whenever Damon visited, he liked to call her Suzy Homemaker, mostly because it annoyed her, but Stefan knew how proud she was of everything she'd built.

The crystal knickknacks on the window sill caught the setting sun and made shadows and light dance on the wall. Stefan followed it for a moment with his eyes and then closed them, remembering days he would come home early and she would be singing or dancing or pouring over one of her many detailed plans for the next town event she'd stuck her hand in. He thought of the way she always stopped when he walked in, how she turned to him and smiled, how her eyes lit up as she crossed the room to kiss him hello, tugging on his tie to loosen it before suggesting they share a blood bag in bed while he told her about his day, all the while undressing him as they went. He remembered his wife, his best friend, and his tears slid freely down his cheeks as his heart panged in his chest.

"Eighty-seven years we've been together, and seventy-nine of those we were married." He turned to face Harold and stepped toward him, bending so they were face to face. "She's the kindest person I ever knew..." He reached up and wrapped his hand around Harold's throat tipping his head back. "Which makes it kind of funny, actually. Because if she was here, if she was alive, she would _beg _me not to hurt you. She'd tell me it wasn't right and that we should go, let you live, and forgive you..." He curled his fingers in and let them gouge Harold's skin. "_But she's not here_."

"Ple-e-ease," he begged, choking.

"I can't do that, Harold." He stared him in the eye, his own blood black. "Before, maybe." He shook his head. "I wasn't always a monster, I want you to remember that... I would've spared you, spared your friends. But that was before. And now..." He smiled darkly, dried blood painted over his chin. "Now I'm _death_."

He squeezed Harold's throat until everything crushed under his fingers, until his lungs stopped desperately pumping, trying and failing to find air, until his heart came to a complete stop. And then he stood up and stared at the slumped body a long moment. Harold was no more and Stefan's humanity was lost. He felt nothing. No fleeting remorse, not even for the ex-wife who would never see her husband again. Not for the men who lay on the floor and the possible families they left behind. They had made their own bed and now they would lay in it.

Stefan walked away. He went to the utility drawer on the far end of the counter and dug around until he found a lighter; Caroline always kept one for her candles and incense. He calmly stood at the sink, staring out on the backyard, the setting sun making the trees and their yard look beautiful. He flicked the lighter on and lit the lace curtains first and then turned, bending, and lit the table cloth. He doused the bodies with a few bottles of alcohol and left them to their inevitable end.

Finally, he walked into the living room. His journal lay on the end table by their couch, a blanket tossed over the back that she often curled up with while he wrote and she watched reality TV. Pictures covered walls and shelves, places they'd been, posing and smiling for the camera. Their wedding photo sat over the fireplace and he stared at it a long while. It wasn't until the heat of the kitchen made him sweat that he leaned down and picked up Caroline. She was weightless and he grimaced when her arms didn't immediately wrap around his neck. When she didn't kick her feet and lean up, biting his chin or kissing his neck, like she always did when he carried her. She was merely limp, unmoving.

He took her to their room and laid her gently on her side of the bed. There was a stack of magazines on her end table, and a few bottles of brightly colored nail polish. Her silk nightgown was hanging on a hook behind the door, the one she always donned when she ran outside to get her gardening supplies, the one she rarely wore for very long before he dragged it off her body, tossing it away so he could taste her skin.

He stared down at her, brushing her hair from her face, and stroked her cheek, following one of the veins that marred her formerly fair skin. Finally, he unknotted his tie and pulled it loose as he moved to his side of the bed and crawled in behind her, dragging her back until she was pressed to his chest.

He could smell the smoke and charred flesh as it filled the house, and hear the glass and wood as it creaked. He could feel the heat as it grew ever closer, but he closed his eyes and let it come. He took her hand, slid his fingers between hers, and felt their wedding bands press together as he held their hands against her heart.

_"So what do you think? Maybe we'll nix the 'for as long as you both shall live, 'til death do you part' thing, right?"_

_"It's kind of an essential part to the vows, isn't it?"_

_"_Stefan!_" she complained, exasperated. "We're immortal vampires."_

"Caroline," _he said in the same tone, smiling, "I think we've seen enough immortal people die to know that anyone can."_

_Sighing, she rested her hands on his shoulders. "And _I_ think seeing all of them die and living through it is just proof that we are made of tougher stuff, okay?" She poked him in the chest, her brows hiked. "I'm planning on living forever so you are _stuck _with me just as long."_

_"And what happens if you do die, hm?" He tipped his head. "What do I do then?"_

_Her smile faded. "What do I want you to do or what _will_ you do?"_

_His eyes narrowed as he half-grinned. "Both."_

_"What I would_ want_ you to do is... _eventually,_ like... a hundred years later, after the pain of losing me is finally a distant memory, you would move on and find someone to love and who loves you back... You'd live out the rest of your days with some nameless vampire who was moderately cute, but nowhere _near_ as beautiful as your first wife, and you would be happy." She stared up at him meaningfully. "Because if there is anything I want in this world, anything I've worked my butt off to help achieve, it's your happiness."_

_"Mission accomplished."_

_She grinned. _

_He licked his lips, nodding faintly. "And what _would_ I do?"_

_"If I died..." Her smile turned solemn as her eyes fell. "You'd fall apart, pull a_ dramatic _Romeo, and prove that not even death would separate us." She waved her finger at him. "And don't try to tell me you wouldn't, because I _know _you, you're way too sacrificial, you know that?"_

_He cupped her face and bent toward her, their noses bumping. "A hundred years wouldn't be enough to dull the pain..." He stared into her eyes, trying to convey the depth of his feelings on the matter. "Nothing would."_

_Her lips curled faintly. "You're a sad, sad romantic, Stefan Salvatore."_

_He laughed under his breath and kissed her, long and deep, before pulling her into his arms and hugging her close. _

_"Hey!"_

_They turned to see Bonnie standing the door impatiently. "What happened to not seeing the bride before the wedding? It's bad luck!"_

_"It's okay, don't worry. We just had a few things to work out. Vows, what we would do in the event that one of us dies, you know, usual wedding stuff," Caroline dismissed, rolling her eyes._

_"No death talk. This is a wedding," Bonnie ordered. "You two are going to live happily ever after_ forever._ Now move it. Damon's already threatened, _three times_, to compel people to stand up and object!" With that, she walked off, muttering under her breath._

_"Is it just me, or is her maid of honor dress doing awesome things for her figure?"_

_Stefan laughed. He kissed her temple and released her, figuring he should probably heed Bonnie's warning. He stopped at the door when Caroline called his name and turned back to her. She was beautiful with her hair up and her white wedding dress draped down her body, but she was gnawing on her lip, her fingers twisted together._

_Finally, she told him, "I would do the same thing..."_

_His brow furrowed._

_"If you died..." She swallowed tightly and shook her head. "I wouldn't move on..." She shrugged, smiling though her lips trembled. "I'd go with you."_

_It took a second, but he nodded, crossing the room once more and pressing his lips to hers firmly, his fingers sliding over the soft fabric of her dress, feeling the intricate lace and bead pattern. She pressed against him, her arms around his neck, gripping the collar of his suit. _

_When he drew back, he pressed his forehead to hers. "I love you."_

_She nodded. "I love you, too."_

They changed their vows.

_"Do you, Stefan Salvatore, take Caroline Forbes, to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer for poorer, forever and beyond?"_

The fire reached their bedroom, he could feel it as it licked up the blanket and caught his pants.

He buried his face against Caroline's hair and whispered, "I do."

[**End**.]

* * *

**Author's Note**: _So, this is inspired, in part, because of a recent death of a family friend. I had actually started this story two or three different times and got lost in the details of their house the previous time and also lost one version with my other laptop. It was mostly supposed to be a piece picking apart grief and how it manifests in different people. But I also started thinking of my family friend, an older gentleman, very philosophical, who was with his wife since they were teenagers, and I thought of how difficult it would be to love someone for so long and then lose them. So when I was writing this, I thought of how much Caroline and Stefan would have been through, how many years they would've been together, and the shock of coming home to find their whole world had come to a sudden and unexpected end. _

_I also liked the idea of writing a darker Stefan. Delving into that part of him that can get brutal and vicious when he deems it necessary. He doesn't shut off his emotions, but he does compartmentalize. I think, here, I wanted him to lose some of his control, to put his humanity aside and put vengeance at the top of his list. I thought of how he would react if he was faced with the people who killed his wife and I don't think he would forgive them or find pity for them. I think he'd be angry and violent and he wouldn't feel better until they were gone. _

_In any case, I wrote this at like midnight, so I hope it's not terrible. It's not beta'd, because I'm impatient and I feel like I haven't posted in ages. Also, to any who are interested, the latest chapter of "**I Belong With You**," a Caroline/Elijah story I've been writing, is in with my beta, as well as the first part of a three-part Steroline story that I promise is full of fluffy happiness (and smut) and not death, so be on the lookout!_

_ I hope you enjoyed it and please take the time to leave a review. _

_Thanks for reading!_

**- Lee | Fina**


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